How would she cook an Azura?

It's a terrible thought to have at a moment like this, says the little bit behind the eyes that watches the other thoughts, that thinks about how she thinks, that banks the anger for later, saves it up.

Probably slow cooking. Big animal, tons of fat. Roast, spit over a fire. Break down the meat, melt the fat into flavor.

Idle thoughts. Pointless. A distraction. Shouldn't be thinking of eating, being eaten. Wouldn't want someone thinking of how to cook her. Hopes her other self isn't thinking the same thing. Hopes her other self is better than her.

Honestly, yeah, that is the hope. Because she knows that if it came down to her or herself, she--god, this terminology is confusing--if the only way she, Dyssia Prime, could survive was by shoving Dyssia Composite into a meatgrinder of teeth then… Well, she's hoping that Dyssia Composite is as good or better than she is, because Dyssia Prime would rather keep her clone alive. 

Dumb. She knows it's dumb. It's gonna get her called naïve. There's no guaranteed that Dyssia Composite would even stick around, or help her friends. Shoving her to her death means she survives, means she gets to make it back to her friends, means she can help so many more people. One person, in exchange for all of that.

Is that what her clone is thinking too? The twitch in the back, that clench of muscles--are they bunched in preparation for the shove?

A ribbon drifts into the pit. 

It's a false dichotomy. Kill or be killed. Feed or be fed on. A false choice. It's there, she acknowledges what it says about her, can admit what she would have done had she had to make it, but it's [i]not[/i] the only option. 

It's not her ribbon, though. She can still feel it clenched into the corner of her mouth, a knot of torn, burnt scrap, solid like an anchor between her teeth.

A second. A third, drifting through the smoke and darkness like a piece of meandering dawn. Like a messager bearing news to a besieged castle.

It's a gamble, is what it is. Is her clone thinking what she's thinking? 

There's no time to verify. 

She's big, is the thing. The tigers are bigger, yes. More powerful, yes. Faster? She's fat by Azura standards, yes, but that's plush wrapped around a twenty-foot core of whipcord muscle. Bunch the tail, whip it around, and the tip might as well be a hammer in its own right.

She grabs her clone by the wrist, and slithers over the stunned body of one tiger, rushes to the wall. 

There's no way for one person to get out of this pit. You could boost someone else out, yes, lift and stand.

But then you'd be at their mercy, and at the mercy of however many tigers are left. You'd need to hope they turn around, offer a rope or an arm or a tail, something to lift you out as well. Hope they don't do the calculus and come to a more sensible conclusion.

Wordlessly, she points to the lip, and offers a step up to her Composite. She'll take that bet, no matter how her heart jumps in her chest, or how it takes a second to restart when her Composite bends to pull her out.

[Get Away, 5, 3, +2. Get there quickly and without harm, while bringing Dyssia Composite with her.]